I’ve been chosen
to write some
******** essay
for a national poetry magazine,
i’ve called everyone i know
to tell them the news
to talk about what i
should say,
nobody answered____
so here i am
alone, listening to old dusty records
typing on a broken machine
and oddly thinking of
guitars, under the sea
trying to play music;
it is sad and good and quiet
and i am alone drowning with it,
i need another glass of wine
i walk to the fridge and open it
for a bottle uncorked earlier
and close it
along with this subject.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
everything i do:
shit.
out of place,
like a culinary genius
trying to take out that
tumor in your brain
he can’t____i can’t
-won’t-
even try anymore:
writing.
there is no point;
there isn’t now
there wasn’t then
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
you are a poem
you are of few
words, visible emotion
yet you are sweet
poignant
direct with your thoughts
you are a poem
in all of its
obfuscating metaphors
and timid lines
meandering through
whimsical dreams
of imperfection
you are a poem
soft, abrasive
holding my poisoned
veins in an eternal
embrace
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
insanity, begin;
PLAY
foam born (A) of the ocean
the backtrack (B)
to the origin of human emotion
before hue and saturation
my life may be black and white
but for the next hour
- quite frankly -
I don’t give a **** because
I am a spaceman looking down on you
no, literally
I am
[above]
you
the decade of statues into which I was born
begged to be forgotten
left behind
communication with my own kind
redundant
boring
meaningless
humanity, mother earth
nothing worth living for
no one worth dying for
because of the
informal gluttony
a sickening acceptance
of the inherent claustrophobia of the human condition
I’m floating
floating
floating
further away from you
from any possible natural surrounding
or human connection
[claiming to be part of humanity always secretly disgusted me]
everything is beautiful from up high
I am a spaceman, a future butterfly.
wait.
something isn’t right
I’m further away
more detached
than I intended to be
further away
the safety of my orbit overlooking you
deconstructing in front of my own eyes
now floating towards the sun of nothing
perhaps I
miscalculated my own superiority
I am the one floating towards eternity
after all
to an inescapable fate
while you are back home
with your (our) own kind
perhaps unhappy
but not alone
I am.
watch me pass by
one last time
I feel my soul breaking apart
my eyes glaze over and
sha/t/te/r
atmosphere
burning
mistaken for a shower of stars
an acceptable way to leave the third
dimension I suppose
perhaps you will see me as the ants of the sky
scattering
glowing
burning
as I find the sun
hello?
am I still alive?
are you still there?
perhaps all I’ve said
and lived
was nothing more than a prequel to the sequel
life before death?
or the other way around?
I am no longer confined by four dimensions
even time is irrelevant
everything is different
everything is right
bleeding viridian
feeling the sensation of nothingness
seeing the sempiternity of the galaxy
hearing translucent shades of the endless chasm
that now surrounds me
falling
fallin
g
falli
ng
fal
l
i
n
g
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
into the depths
until I land upon a new horizon
I am a spaceman
I am discovering everything
I found death
surrounded by white walls
the greatest journey
of our [lives?]
happens only six feet down
surrounded by white walls
this is what we have when we die.
this is what is left of us.
white walls.
White Walls.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
saw a girl on the street
giving tarot card readings
“five dollars for your future” her sign read
what a deal, what a steal!
I handed her a ten, said “keep the change
but
if you give me good news I’m going to call your bluff and take my ******* money back”
she kept right on staring at me
annoyed
collected
reserved
and with her empty eyes peering into my soul
she told me
“I see nothing in your future, just an ******* drowning in his own self pitty and sorrow”
“fair enough” I chuckled, as “nothing” was well within my
demanded parameters
I could eat a shotgun shell
have a liver failure
die of cancer
swing by my neck like a piñata from my favorite tree
tomorrow
or:
live another fifty years
never have kids
never marry the girl I lov
never record another album
or type another word
which “nothing” fate decides for me
I do not care
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:49 AM UTC
I am a slave to all that I own
I can’t remember the last time I woke up
and didn’t want to walk out my front door
down the street
across state lines
into the overpopulated void
but my ********* common sense
always stops me
"what a waste”
it’s a shame, pathetic really
that I desire the freedom
the thrill
of being undiscovered by society
to the point that I dream about it
constantly
and still, here I sit
in a room full of records
expensive guitars and
seasons of The Andy Griffith Show
that I can not leave
I am a slave to all that I own
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:49 AM UTC
today
while smoking a cigarette
I saw a butterfly
dead on the sidewalk
it was neither gruesome or disturbing
in fact
it was almost peaceful in a way
just nature at its end
I wish I was a butterfly
transformed
from wretchedness
into something beautiful
to you:to me
the attraction is anything but
physical
it eats like hell
for a solid week
sleeps for the next three
emerges
arrives
evolved
into the sky
life is now at its most poignant pinnacle
beautiful
tende
vulnerable
utterly free
no longer even bound by gravity
I bet that’s a ******* trip
but
there’s always a but
irreversibly limited to a handful of days
I wish I was a butterfly
alive for a month of this ****
and then beautifully
quietly
lie down on a sidewalk
and die.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC